The Five Senses
by orenashii
Summary: He'll take anything, anything at all, to feel something rather than nothing.


_Author's Note_

This story is rated 'M' for sexual content and loosely categorized as 'romance.'

This is not a romantic story.

Happy Valentine's Day XD

* * *

The Five Senses

* * *

His first kiss was nothing like he had ever imagined. He'd been kissed before, his first by a girl his own age as they'd sprinted through a field of reeds, catching and releasing insects; laughter in a warm breeze. Others since were usually by women weighted by the loss of their husbands to war, overjoyed that he had stepped forth to help. That their homes, their children, could finally step out into the light of day without fear that one of Aku's minions could cause them harm.

But those experiences meant little to him now. His first kiss—his first _real_ kiss—one that he had initiated himself was not of romance. It was neither shy nor hesitant nor filled with boyish anticipation. There were no gentle words, no tenderness to the touch. Only the boiling rush of blood in his veins as violence overtook him, spilling into his hands as he shoved her against the wall and slotted his lips against hers.

 _Her_ lips _._ The lips of his enemy. The sole survivor of a massacre that he alone had inflicted. The lips of a woman that could do nothing else but spit hatred and malice anytime they were open. Her words, spoken out of inherent distrust, frayed the edges of his patience until he felt he had no other choice. It was all he could do. To push back against the voice in his mind that baited him, _begged him_ , to wring her neck and be free of it all. Anything to finally shut her up.

She'd pushed back and bared her teeth like a wild animal. Her eyes shined like obsidian stone at the foot of a mountain. He'd barely the time to take a breath in as she pulled at his hair, returning the fury of his embrace, biting his lips and dragging her sharp nails across his skin, leaving flushing welts that flared up like a flame meeting fuel.

He'd pushed her up the wall, higher, to get a better angle. Her head smacked against it with a hollow _thud_ but he did not care if she was hurt. The only thing he cared about was feeling the vibrations of her throat as he ran his tongue against it. Even fouler words passed her lips and he brought his head back up to silence her, hoping to tame the venom of her tongue with his own; yet nothing could dull the burn in his gut as she wrapped her thighs around him. She held him there with a vice-like grip, only pulling back long enough to allow him to free himself of the tattered remnants of cloth about him and penetrate her until they both screamed to the gods for mercy.

She'd left him that night, alone in a cold room with dark corners where shadows danced, toying with his already on-edge psyche, tricking him into believing he was in danger. Sleep did not come to him. He thought it'd be the last time he'd ever see her and was surprised to find her the next morning outside of the inn—arms folded, chagrin expression unchanged—as she was ready for their journey to continue. She'd claimed she had spent the night outside, keeping watch for any enemies. He'd nodded to her in acknowledgment but he did not thank her. He still could not trust her.

The weight of guilt—to so foolishly lose himself in vehemence and lust—bore down on him with the strength of a boulder strapped to his back. It made his voice weaker, his steps slower and she'd ended up lashing out more and more, impatiently seeking out her own goals. The feelings he'd felt that first night returned stronger than before. Every insult, every quip against him made his lips curl and his eye twitch in annoyance and for a glorious, inconceivable moment: he was grateful for it. His frustration and rage left him no energy to feel guilt.

The more she yelled and complained, the more kindling was added to soft, ever-glowing ember of his anger until they were left alone again. The spark of flint and rock to light a campfire mirrored their passion as they began their affair anew.

The beginnings of such an affair were many weeks ago. There seemed to be no ending in sight. Decades of isolation and fear and adrenaline had long ago convinced him that there would never be an ending in sight. And by some sort of twisted miracle, he almost didn't want one.

* * *

 _"Samurai."_

He's taking her from behind and he swallows the growl in his throat, not wanting to hear anything else but the sounds of their flesh slapping together and the pitch of her cries splitting the air in desperation. Because in the dizzying haze of his own ecstasy, he realizes how much he yearns for the noise to break apart the silence. How he needs to hear his own name called out in anything— _anything_ —other than a cry for help or a call for his death. Breath escapes him regardless and the sound of it mingles with hers as he throws his head back to let it wash over him.

 _"Oh god."_

He fists his hand in her hair and pulls because he needs to feel something between his fingers that isn't his own blood as he collapses in narrowly won victory. The feeling of cold, dead earth as he buries yet another victim of senseless pain and horror he'd been too late to save is nearly erased with the smooth texture of her heated skin as he strengthens his grip on her thigh.

 _"Deeper."_

He bends at the waist to press his forehead between her shoulder blades and alters the angle of his rolling hips to give her exactly what she wants. There's barely any room between his mouth and her spine and he pants into her back as he's flooded with the memory of the first time, the second time, the third time, and _every time_ this has happened and he can't stop himself from uttering broken words of pleasure in his native tongue. The hair of his beard is still wet from where it had been between her legs. The scent of her on his breath is more potent than any liquor or flower; a scent unlike fire and brimstone and charred flesh and death; a scent that reminded him that he was alive on earth and not suffering in hell.

 _"Don't stop!"_

His tongue darts out and laps at the sweat on the back of her neck and it's nearly overwhelming how sweet it is to taste something that isn't vermin he's been forced to kill to save himself from starvation. He's so used to finding himself in wastelands without food and her skin reminds him of a bountiful harvest—the color like raw honey—and he soaks up as much as he can and savors just how sweet salt can taste.

 _"Please!"_

He paws at the back of her suit, ripping it open even further. He's never truly seen her naked, only glimpses of her flesh as her suit is ripped away in the whirlwind of teeth and muscle and need as their bodies crash together. He wishes he could see her face now—eyes fluttering, a trickle of blood making its way down her chin as she bites her lips but perhaps this way is better. Anything is better than watching life fade from someone's eyes again or the bright color of flame as another village is engulfed and destroyed.

 _"Jack!"_

He rears up and cups her shoulders with his palms, slamming his hips against hers with speed he didn't know he still had as the world sputters on its axis. He bites his lip, deliberately causing himself pain to stave off finishing before her. It's a simple rule he's made himself to follow; a rule that he does not take lightly. Because he finally holds a semblance of control and it means everything to finally have a choice. He did not choose to leave his home as a child; he was taken. He did not choose to abandon his people and fight in another time; he was tricked. He did not choose to spill blood and take lives; he was forced.

But these moments were his. Every bruise, every scrape, every drop of blood between them _belonged_ to him. Even the quaking pulse of her muscles around him as she comes bears his signature and he hisses in bliss. He pulls away from her and pumps himself in his hand, the only sounds escaping his lips are guttural groans that sound vaguely like _'Mine'_ over and over again until he releases. He spills himself on her back as she collapses forward, hips still in the air, and he sinks his cock back inside of her, rocking slowly with the selfish need to feel her one more time before the moment is over.

He finally rolls away and lets his back sink into the moderately comfortable bed of the inn he had rented. He turns to her and she has not moved from her position. Her face is pressed against the sheets and he can see the side of her lips curve up as she laughs breathlessly. Her head turns and her laughter is extinguished, replaced by a blank expression and an eyebrow curved up in mild irritation and it is nothing less than what he expects.

She pulls herself out of the bed and he makes no move to help her as she grabs a spare cloth to wipe at her back. She takes one long look at him and he takes all the time he has left to admire the curves of her nearly naked body before she turns and leaves the room, no doubt to repair the tattered fabric of her catsuit. She leaves him at night in shreds yet always returns to him in the morning with her clothing pristine as if she'd never been touched. He's reminded of his own clothing, his gi that he'd been so diligent in repairing after a battle. Clothing he no longer believes himself worthy to wear.

His gaze meets the ceiling and his eyes lose focus. He lets the sound of her cries, the sight of her gaze, and the touch of her skin keep him company in the dark. Because in those moments, the monsters are at bay; the omen that stalks him in the shadows keeps its distance. The taste of her flesh and the scent of their intimacy lingers long after she's gone and it is only then that he can finally let his eyes slip shut.

He used to beg for sleep to pull him away from the nightmare of reality. Whether it be a few minutes or a few hours, it was the only reprieve for his loneliness. The only means of escape. Yet now, he willingly puts it off, if only to feel—for just a moment longer—something he cannot name whenever his body rolls and cracks and snaps against hers.

Because when he's with her, he feels everything. And when he sleeps, he feels nothing at all.

* * *

 _Author's Note_

Oof. Right?

This story is dedicated to all of my Jashi pals who inspired me to write something for Valentine's Day! My original story was going to be sweet and fluffy and romantic but I wasn't happy with it so I put it on pause. Then, out of the blue, I was struck with a single line. 'He buries his hand in her hair and pulls... because he needs to feel something between his fingers that isn't his own blood.' From then on, I tossed out the light and fluffy and brought out the dark and angsty. Needless to say, I had a ton of fun writing this.

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your feedback. Happy Valentine's Day!


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